This night I took a kick so mighty it felt like my very soul shattered on impact. I watched the heel quit my chest and the eyes of my sparring partner fill with surprise as I was struggling to breath. My limbs went unresponsive and I don't know how I managed not to fall to my knees. It was not a nasty hit, just a perfectly accurate one. For several minutes I could only stand up and catch my breath. I don't know at what time it started, but as my mouth was kept open by the mouthguard, I began to taste a few tears – only a subtle change from the sweat. Yet, ten or twenty minutes after, as I began to actually think about it, I felt suprisingly fine. Not only my body had some time to recover, but my mind was clear – far clearer than it's been for a long time.
I don't know if that's some actual reaction to this kick or a longer process that only waited for such an opportunity to set on stage, but I'm finally getting a grasp on the bad dog that squat my